All over again
I wouldn’t go back and see the psychologist. Sometimes you’ve gotta keep looking back over your shoulder, constantly vigilant, worried that if one little thing breaks then it all will. My mum wasn’t so vigilant, or, if she was, then something got through and it all broke apart. I’m too scared of that happening to me. But I can watch on my own, I don’t need some awful woman watching for me and adding extra pressure.
When she left she spat words in my face. I had my arm trapped in the door trying to stop her, begging her to stay, promising that I didn’t mean it, that I was sorry, hysterical. But she left anyway screaming at me, clawing at my arm. And afterwards for four days the words just repeated over and over in my head, echoing.
“You’re just like her; you’re mum all over again.”
There are so many people so much more screwed up than me. And so many people who are less. I don’t know why I am the way I am, I don’t know how my mum ended up the way she is, and I’m not sure whether I can change any of it. These last few months I’ve been completely lost. I can’t change any of it, and I can’t prove to myself that I will never turn out like her, I can just promise myself that I’ll try to hold it together for as long as possible. Though, for some reason right now, that isn’t working. Maybe I’ve already past that point, maybe I’ve already lost it all.
I’ve altered every feature that god if the bastard is real gave me. I even got jet black hair to go blonde for a while. I can look like my mother, or I can look more English like my dad. None of it really changed anything at all; it just made for some interesting variation in my different forms of ID. I dunno, somehow I thought that maybe changing the outside would change the inside too. I suppose I really never completely expected it to work.
I dreamed of growing up, escaping it all, and I did. It just wasn’t as good as I thought it would be.
When she left she spat words in my face. I had my arm trapped in the door trying to stop her, begging her to stay, promising that I didn’t mean it, that I was sorry, hysterical. But she left anyway screaming at me, clawing at my arm. And afterwards for four days the words just repeated over and over in my head, echoing.
“You’re just like her; you’re mum all over again.”
There are so many people so much more screwed up than me. And so many people who are less. I don’t know why I am the way I am, I don’t know how my mum ended up the way she is, and I’m not sure whether I can change any of it. These last few months I’ve been completely lost. I can’t change any of it, and I can’t prove to myself that I will never turn out like her, I can just promise myself that I’ll try to hold it together for as long as possible. Though, for some reason right now, that isn’t working. Maybe I’ve already past that point, maybe I’ve already lost it all.
I’ve altered every feature that god if the bastard is real gave me. I even got jet black hair to go blonde for a while. I can look like my mother, or I can look more English like my dad. None of it really changed anything at all; it just made for some interesting variation in my different forms of ID. I dunno, somehow I thought that maybe changing the outside would change the inside too. I suppose I really never completely expected it to work.
I dreamed of growing up, escaping it all, and I did. It just wasn’t as good as I thought it would be.
Labels: Growing Up
| Permalink | 
